


Nightcap

by missmollyetc



Category: Hockey RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: Friends With Benefits, Hockey Players-Canada, Hockey Players-Men, M/M, Montreal Canadiens, National Hockey League
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-04
Updated: 2012-02-04
Packaged: 2017-10-31 06:41:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/341091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmollyetc/pseuds/missmollyetc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drunken shenanigans are their own reward, but hat tricks are pretty cool, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nightcap

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my wonderful betas [](http://angelsaves.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**angelsaves**](http://angelsaves.dreamwidth.org/) (first draft Hail Mary’s for the win!) and [](http://shihadchick.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**shihadchick**](http://shihadchick.dreamwidth.org/), who reassured me that I wasn’t a) crazy and b) suddenly writing in Esperanto.

  


It sinks in after awhile, like really truly sticks inside his brain, that that was _his_ hat trick; that the hats and the screams and slaps to his helmet were real. They board the plane to Montreal, and PK is so fucking jazzed he could have flown the team back to Montreal on his damn shoulders. He starts the party with the tiny bottles of rum the stewardess ignores him filching from her cart, falls out onto the tarmac at Trudeau in a fit of giggles, draped over Scotty’s back like a cape, and graduates to boilermakers by the time he and Carey take a wrong turn on the pub crawl and wind up...where they are.

"Is this wine?" Carey asks, pressing his face against the glass door.

"I think it's a wine _shop_ ," PK says, leaning on Carey's shoulder.

He stumbles a little, and Cary shuffles underneath his weight as he resettles them. The metal frame of the store’s door is cold against PK’s shoulder. When Carey tilts his head, the stiff, black bristles on the side of his head poke against PK's cheek. PK wrinkles his nose. He smells shampoo and a little bit of hair gel, the vinegary sweat that lingers at the nape of Carey's neck. PK closes his eyes, and feels his mouth curve upwards. Carey smells nice, familiar, like all the...like all the times Carey has smelled like this before. He has a hat trick, and a Carey, and a city and…all of it, it’s all—he has guys too. Good guys, with the...

"What happened to all the guys?" he asks, tilting his head.

PK sucks down a mouthful of cold, sharp air, and opens his eyes wide to refocus. He was sure they'd been at that last club and then...and then maybe...the little guy, the captain, _Gi’d_ said they'd had enough, and it was time to go home. PK hadn't wanted to, but Carey had said they had to do what the Captain had said and then it was...maybe they'd missed a cab? There'd been a long line for them, and Carey had said...Carey had said...they needed champagne. For later. PK feels his smile widen, and rolls his weight forward onto his toes.

"I think it's closed," Carey says, and sighs hard enough to knock PK from his shoulder.

PK stumbles back a step, and edge of the door frame smacks his elbow _hard_. Suddenly the ground turns underneath his feet, like a bubble under the ice at the rink. He grabs the back of Carey's shirt for balance, already twisting to reset himself. Carey makes a gurgling noise as PK falls back. His free hand flaps out between them, scrabbling for the doorbar, and holding on until gravity swings him back against Carey. The breath whooshes out of PK's lungs, ruffling the hair on the back of Carey's head.

"Sorry, man," PK mutters, untangling his hand from Carey’s shirt collar. He pats the crown of Carey's head, and lets gravity slide his fingers back down to Carey's neck. Carey has soft skin, a little damp. "I felt a little ooky for a moment."

Carey's shoulders shudder, and PK presses closer, moving around to Carey's right. "Dude, you're not, like, did I smush you?"

Carey presses his forehead against the glass door and twists his chin in PK's direction. The streetlamp above their heads makes his brown eyes shine a little, just a bit, and PK...PK feels something start to heat in the pit of his stomach, weaving up his ribs.

"Hey," he says, feeling his lips stretch upwards. "Hey Carey."

"Hey PK," Carey says, smiling. "You got a hat trick."

PK nods. "Yep," he says.

Carey shifts against the door, and his elbow, PK realizes, is kind of right up against PK's side. He moves closer, sidles up to Carey's back, and drapes his arms around Carey's shoulders. Carey is warm and smells like Carey and it's nice, it really...Carey feels nice beneath him. PK likes his muscles. He puts his mouth up to Carey's ear, warmth flowing up and down his body where it's touching Carey's.

"Dude, if there's no booze, what will we drink?" PK asks.

Carey laughs and shakes his head, getting his hair in PK's eyes. PK flinches back, and the ground does its stupid bubbling, lurching thing, because suddenly they're both spinning, and the streetlamp is turning everything golden and the sidewalk is dark grey as it gets closer. PK's back hits something and Carey's back hits PK's chest, and all of a sudden PK's head falls back against someone's shoulder. He looks up.

"I can see right up your nose," PK says.

"Well, thanks, buddy," Hal says, nodding.

Carey giggles, which makes PK laugh because Carey's giggle is fucking stupid. Hal looks off over his shoulder, and now PK can't see up his nose anymore, which is great. He should thank Hal for that.

"I found them!" Hal yells. "I told you they were too dumb to go far!"

How they get into the cab that takes them to PK's apartment is kind of a blur, filled with Hal yelling and people pushing and Hal yelling some more because he's annoying like that. He also only gives the cabbie the address for ‘their’ building, covering Carey’s entire non-poker face with his ginormous hand while he does it, and _that_ is why Hal Gill is PK’s fucking king, man; that right there. After awhile, though, it's just Carey and PK in the back of a cab, with all the windows down as they drive because Hal paid extra for the torment. Fuck, if cold made you sober, Edmonton would keep their goalies in the freezer.

The cold night air isn't so bad, though, because it actually makes PK perk up a little bit, and it definitely makes Carey lean closer. PK catches the cabbie's eye in the rearview mirror, and blinks at him until the guy looks away. They're not cuddling. Fuck that guy.

The cabbie turns up PK's street, and pulls to a stop. PK jerks the shoulder with Carey's head on it up and down to get Carey moving, and hauls himself out of the cab, grabbing the hand strap with his left and the car frame with his right. He hears Carey's feet hitting the asphalt behind him as the cab drives off.

PK turns around. Carey is standing in his street, with his hands in the pockets of his jeans.

"We forgot the champagne," Carey says, looking up at the long, mirror-windowed siding of PK's apartment building.

"I have…I have Fresca," PK says.

Carey nods, and tilts his chin up. PK can see his breath drifting up like smoke between them. Carey bites his full bottom lip, and ducks his head. He looks back up, and PK--PK feels all the alcohol in his blood start to boil away. He licks his lips.

Carey waggles his eyebrows. PK swallows, and nods.

 

***

 

Hal might have been onto something with the cold air, because PK actually makes it all the way through his hall, into the elevator, and through the door of his apartment before falling against Carey into the nearest wall, and sucking Carey’s tongue into his mouth. Carey moans, thighs spreading apart so that PK can step between them, and hooks his ankle behind PK's right knee.

It feels like he’s been waiting for this all fucking night, from the moment the third goal went in, maybe, and PK’s never been awesome at waiting, not when Carey’s close enough to grab. PK tangles his fingers in Carey's hair, and tilts their heads to the side until Carey's mouth is hot and slick against his, until he forgets those three inches of height he’s got on PK and melts against the wall. Carey is shivering, tiny tremors beating against PK's weight, and his breath is hitching every time PK pulls back to snatch his own taste of air. PK slides his tongue along Carey's, pulls back and bites Carey's lower lip, the round of his chin, and lets his teeth sink into the soft skin just underneath.

“No Fresca, huh?” Carey says, gasping at the ceiling.

PK giggles into Carey’s throat, and Carey shakes, head held so carefully still. His body rocks against PK's, hands fisted in the small of PK's back. PK hears threads pop in his shirt. Heat is pulsing harder and faster through his body, swirling tightly beneath his skin. One of Carey's fists moves lower, spreads, and grips PK's ass, pulling him closer.

PK thinks his heart must be beating in time to the whine of Carey's breath. He feels sloppy with drink and heat and the taste of Carey in his mouth. He pulls back, licks a wide stripe high around Carey's neck, and rubs his lips against Carey's ear.

"Bed," Carey says, "bed, _please_ bed..."

God, anything Carey wants. Anything, Jesus, PK scored a hat trick today, he can do any-fucking-thing and he'll do what Carey wants, fuck. They stumble backwards down his hallway, tripping out of their shoes and popping the buttons on their good game shirts. Carey backs PK against the threshold of his bedroom. He licks his lips, tongue lingering over the red spot at the corner where PK had his teeth. Carey's still half-wearing his plaid shirt, minus most of the top buttons, and PK winces, already imagining the shit fit he'll get in the morning.

Carey slips his shirt off over his head. He hooks his thumbs into the waistbands of his jeans and boxers, and walks backwards into the bedroom, kicking the Xbox controllers out of his way. PK pushes off from the door, and follows him. He gets his knees onto the mattress, and crawls up Carey’s body, grabbing Carey's wrists in both hands. Carey thrusts up against him, hips wiggling, grinning like the dope he is.

PK smiles back, lightheaded with adrenaline, and all the blood pounding down his veins into his cock. Fucking Carey always knows his shit. He knows PK loves this, loves pushing down Carey's pants and sliding his hands over Carey's soft skin and long, tight muscles. It's like his own damn porn subscription, like he sent off for a skin mag and won a prize instead. He doesn't get to do it that often either, because this thing...it's not...it's not a thing he comes home to. He and Carey are a sometimes deal, a free-time-make-you-feel-better arrangement, not a...

Carey wiggles beneath him, flexes his wrists in PK's grip, and PK shakes himself out of it. Fucking alcohol makes him soppy, and Carey knows it. His big sloe eyes are already softening, but PK squirms down, lets go of Carey's hands, and takes hold of his hips instead. He puts his face against Carey's open fly, mouthing past the zipper to the thin, wet cotton of his boxer-briefs and sucks.

Carey groans above him. “Fucking tease…”

Jesus God, PK loves fucking Carey when they're drunk. He takes his hands off Carey's hips and wriggles off his jeans and underwear, licking around the hair at the base of Carey's cock, and into the creases of his thighs. Carey groans, ass shifting against PK's quilt. PK's cock is so hard he can feel the zipper imprinting on his dick. Fuck alcohol anyway; he's a hockey player.

He leans his forearm against Carey's belly, and works his own fly open one-handed. Carey's hands are clenching on his shoulders, fingers jerking at the seams of his shirt. His nails are blunt, cut right down to the quick, and he has calluses in all the weird places cowboys get them.

PK raises his arms as he moves in between Carey's legs, and lets Carey pull off his dress shirt as he settles down at Carey’s waist. He licks down Carey's shaft, and back up again, sucking the head into his mouth. Carey's feet are pushing at the bed, straining for leverage even as his thighs try to open past where they're caught by his own jeans. PK jerks himself off with his right hand, and wraps the other around the base of Carey's cock, sliding his mouth down to meet his fingers.

Carey's breath is coming in whistles, his fingers screwing down into PK's shoulders.

"God, your mouth," Carey says, moaning when PK flicks his tongue beneath Carey's foreskin, and moves his left hand down briefly to roll Carey's balls across his fingers. "Jesus _Christ._ "

PK hums because it makes Carey writhe, and licks under the rim of Carey’s foreskin. He starts working up a rhythm with his own hand, slicking his fingers with pre-come and twisting his palm over the head. Carey's fingers dig deeply, sliding over to the base of his neck and cupping PK's skull. His knees try to come up for balance, and his jeans hit PK right in the chest. PK startles, breaks free to avoid any unfortunate biting, and falls to his side on the bed.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Carey chants, already wriggling free of the rest of his clothes. "God, I fucking...stop laughing!"

He glares over his shoulder, only a little bleary-eyed now, and PK hiccups, trying to stifle his giggles. Carey groans, and flops next to him on the bed.

"Your fucking stupid laugh," he grumbles, batting PK's hands away when he reaches for Carey’s cock. "Fucking...no, c'mere, I want it—I want it like this."

He pulls PK on top of him, hands pushing down PK's trousers and boxers, and kisses him, sucking on PK's bottom lip until PK's clothes have joined his on the floor and it's just acres and kilometers of skin, and soft, warm, hard Carey.

PK puts his weight on his elbows, thrusting up against Carey. Carey groans, deep in the back of his throat. He slams his hand back against the headboard for leverage, and the muscles in his arm stand out like ropes. PK hisses and drops his head. It's like no other feeling, kissing Carey, and then tasting the salty sweat at his collarbones. PK could spend years here, rutting up between Carey's legs, and feeling their dicks slide together.

"Just you...just you," he mumbles, and then freezes, but Carey doesn't seem to hear--or maybe thinks it's just PK, who just says stupid shit when he's fucking, God, no one needs to bring up the 'Bananas Foster' moment again—because Carey's free hand is tearing at PK's back, yanking at him like he's not already plastered against Carey tightly enough to be _inside_ him if they could be any more patient.

Carey wraps his legs around PK's waist and his arms around his shoulders. He throws his head back, and shouts, slamming the headboard into the wall, and then relaxes, melting back into the bed. He clings to PK, mouth at PK's neck, riding out PK's thrusts, whining high in his throat. Heat pours between their bodies, sweat and come smearing between them, and that smell, that shampoo and hair gel and sweat smell hiding behind Carey's ears is what tips the balance. Light flashes in front of PK's eyes, his blood fizzes, and he's coming, shooting all over Carey's skin.

He collapses, running his hands up and down Carey's sides and around to his shoulders and back again in a loop. Carey's body moves like a wave beneath him as Carey murmurs, drowsy and dark. He can't understand what Carey's saying. PK would be sad about that, maybe he'd lift up to hear better another time, but Carey's hands are skittering across his shoulders, fingers lightly scratching at his nape, just like he does after he comes, when he's not hard and he's still sensitive, but he just wants to touch so much he can't stop; when it's not enough, but Carey can't handle more, and so PK sighs. He lips Carey's ear, and tangles them together, presses his weight down against Carey's body until Carey's little twitches are more like caresses, until he can feel the rumbling murmur of Carey's voice in his chest and taste Carey's skin beneath his tongue and that's it. That's all he needs tonight.

 

 

 

 


End file.
